Most tourists go to Churchill to watch the annual polar bear migration from the safety of a tundra buggy.

But up here, an hour north of Churchill by turbo Otter aircraft, we are in the cage looking out. And the view is both exhilarating, and a little bit frightening.

While the fence that encircles the 1,000-square-metre camp protects us, there is no guarantee the bears won’t break through (those who do bump up against the fence receive an electric jolt that usually sends them away).

Just in case, our Inuit guides, as well as our expedition leader Dave Briggs and his staff, carry rifles and monitor the perimeter 24/7. The Inuit shout Ava Ni Nanuk (Stay away bear), throw rocks, or if they have to, shoot rubber bullets.

The camp, owned by an Inuk from Arviat, was once used to house U.S. hunters who would hunt the bears with the Inuit on dog sleds. But after the animals were declared an endangered species in 2009, the camp fell into disuse.

Arctic Kingdom, a Nunavut-based travel company that specializes in Arctic Safaris, came up with the idea of retro-fitting the camp, and converting it into an ecotourism thrill.

There are four comfortable guest cabins, heated by propane with pump showers. On my second day, we see a bear right outside the camp with a beautiful unblemished coat, tiny perfect ears and a stubby tail.

She takes her time circling the perimeter of our camp, sniffing the bacon in the air, patiently analyzing everything. I call her Joy — though the Inuit laugh at me.

“The Arctic is the perfect place to photograph bears,” says Mike Bertelsen, a photographer who serves as the Arctic Kingdom’s resident expert. “The subject is big and moves slowly. The sun is low in the sky and the light is beautiful so you can shoot all day.”

In Inuit culture, the polar bear is both revered and feared. Historically, the Inuit hunted the polar bear and still do, in limited numbers, depending on the quota.

While the overall polar bear population is declining as a result of global warming and a loss of sea ice, there are so many in the town of Arviat, where Curley is from, the children cannot go trick-or-treating on Halloween. Monitors on snowmobiles drive away the bears who come too close to town.

It is with this in mind that we venture carefully outside the fence for a two-hour guided walk on the tundra. It is so clear you can see for miles and we spot Arctic fox, ptarmigan and a cheeky ermine, his coat completely white.

In the distance, we also see Joy, and come across the remains of her breakfast, a ringed seal, near the water’s edge.

She ate everything but the entrails, and the snow is spotted with trails of blood. It’s a potent reminder of the bear’s hunting prowess.

These creatures have been known to wait near a hole on the sea ice for hours for a seal. They are also known as shape-shifters who can hide in the snow, camouflaged as icebergs, or shield their eyes with a paw.

At the end of the day, we gather for dinner in the main cabin. Kate Mathieu, the camp’s delightful chef, has whipped up Arctic char and pumpkin pie.

While cooking on the tundra is not easy, she loves the challenge of hacking up caribou bones with a hammer for bone marrow soup and calculating how much fresh produce she needs flown in from Churchill every week. The Inuit guides keep their own stash of country food — beluga, blubber and raw char — in the freezer and cook it up on a propane stove in their cabin.

The only other guest on my trip is a 39-year-old German lawyer, in a rented Canada Goose jacket.

“To be able to watch the bears for hours in their own habitat is just extraordinary,” he says.

The final day, we see six polar bears: Joy, a mother and cub, a friendly newcomer who sits right outside the fence in a submissive pose and a face that seems to say “Can’t I come in for breakfast?” and two males a little farther out. The pair circle one another like wrestlers, baring their teeth, and daring each other to strike first. The smaller one pushes the bigger one in the chest, and he falls backwards on the ice. He gets up on his powerful hind legs, and comes crashing down on his jousting partner. They grab each other’s ears and fur, and I hold my breath wondering if there will be blood. But it seems they are careful not to do any real damage. A wounded bear won’t make it through the winter.

“You can never make fun of the bears because they will come back and taunt you,” warns Curley.

That night, I wake up at 4 a.m., certain there is a bear outside, banging on my cabin, angry at my southern stupidity. Or maybe just hungry.

I am sure I can see the outline of his face in the window. My heart pounding, I turn on my flashlight, force myself out of bed and creep across my room to the window, ready to blow the bear horn. But all I can see outside is the rain falling, the grass blowing, and patches of snow. I am safe in my cabin. But I have been forewarned: you underestimate this creature at your own peril.

The writer was a guest of Arctic Kingdom. The company did not review the article. For more information visit arctickingdom.com.

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